


bustle in hand is worth a bushel

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey, Hanifin's allowed to be shallow, his age still ends in "--teen". 'Sides, all his fault for picking a career that comes up with terms like "hockey attractive" and "sick flow". </p><p>So anyone would understand why it takes Hanifin a while, between keeping his eyes to himself, the Canes struggling, and his teammates being <i>rank</i>, for him to realize that Justin Faulk has a <i>glorious</i> ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bustle in hand is worth a bushel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayal/gifts).



> A hanukkah gift for maxisadouche-- I hope you enjoy!
> 
> For the uninitiated: [ Let your eyes look at the left side of the picture and decide for yourself ;) ](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com/post/105571780050/suttsy16-jeff-and-elias-are-so-cute-x)

Hanifin keeps his eyes to himself. It’s just as easy to pretend getting dressed requires his every ounce of concentration as it is to slip clothes on at a pace that isn’t  _too_ … too. Eyes front-- to the left-- to the right-- up-- but _never_  down–

Not like it’s a hardship anyways. Hanifin doesn’t go for teammates. Not because he doesn’t want to mess with the dynamic-- just that his teammates are, well. Ok-looking, at best. Hey, Hanifin’s allowed to be shallow, his age still ends in “–teen”. 'Sides, all his fault for picking a career that comes up with terms like “hockey attractive” and “sick flow”.

So anyone would understand why it takes Hanifin a while, between keeping his eyes to himself, the Canes struggling, and his teammates being  _rank_ , for him to realize that Justin Faulk has a  _glorious_  ass.

Three months, give or take this road trip they’re on, to be precise. Hanifin almost wants to be angry-- because it’s a hell of an ass. Hanifin wants to sink his teeth in it, shaped like an apple from god knows how many hours Faulk puts in at the gym and on the ice, curved just right to fill a lucky pair of hands.

He stares, dripping water on the floor and watching Faulk’s ass flex as he dries off his legs and turns to pitch the towel into the large laundry bin wheeled into the middle of the visitors’ locker room. Hanifin can’t tear his eyes away-- it’s pale, probably because Faulk wouldn’t dare to sunbathe nude, but Faulk sure as fuck goes shirtless. There’s still a stark line between Faulk’s fading tan and that ass, and Hanifin wants to lick it, press his teeth against  _that_ particular equator.

Faulk bends over and pulls up those horrible Costco jeans over them, and Hanifin suppresses a sad sigh. Hanifin’ll never get to touch it, never ever get to rub his dick off against that marvelous ass that should put Sidney Crosby’s to shame. It’s a fucking shame.

As if Faulk can feel Hanifin’s eyes on  _him_ , he looks over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in question-- and Hanifin doesn’t miss the small smirk he makes when Hanifin pretends he doesn’t even see Faulk. Faulk should be cool, none of this gay freak-out and shit, right? Hanifin doesn’t have any questions for him. He’s just the rookie, and pretty clear who’s higher up on the Canes pecking order.

Faulk checks him against the glass the very next practice.

Hanifin bites his lip at letting the puck slip away, at keeping his head down, at Faulk  _grinding_  him to a fine paste against the plexiglass because jesus christ Faulk has fifteen real non-made-up pounds on him and Hanifin’s only over 200 because of NHL.com. That’s a bitch of a battle to lose, not least because his cup’s digging hard against his dick as he watches Faulk skate away with the puck glued to his stick and he has to skate twice as hard to regain the strong side, motherfuck.

It shouldn’t make his blood hot to get a smirk from Faulk when he scores, cellys with a little fist pump, and then skates up to Hanifin and tells him to eat more. Hanifin follows his nutrition plan like it’s his new religion, but Faulk and his stupid, big ass just happens to be heavier than him right  _now_. Faulk even reaches  _up_  to ruffle at Hanifin’s helmet and tells him to be meaner, that if he wants tips Faulk can teach him.

Hanifin narrows his eyes at that. He’s a masshole, not Minnesota Nice unlike  _some_. Faulk laughs at that, and leaves him alone.

Until the guys go out to a bar.

It’s an off night on the road, and what hotel can hold 20-odd overgrown guys? The bar can barely hold them either-- they’re quartered up in one poorly lit corner with pushed-together sticky table tops, and Skins is stealing coasters out from under Malone. Eric just squints at the entire thing with his usual squint. Hanifin still can’t tell Eric’s squints apart, but he figures it’s generally safe to operate on Eric being constantly low-key irritated. Hasn’t fucked Hanifin over yet.

One point the bar has in its favor:

They don’t ask him for ID.

Murph smirks that it’s because of Hanifin’s face. Hanifin rolls his eyes and flips off Murph, who just says “charming” and heaves up a bottle of beer to his lips. Hanifin’s playing it safe, has a glass of beer that he takes sips from as he looks up at the TV screens. Canadian football, man.

He doesn’t get to try to figure out what’s the hell up with Canadian football. Faulk sits right on his lap, claiming that Hanifin’s being rude by not giving up his chair to a  _veteran_ , and now he’s gotta pay. The rest of the guys hoot,  _egg_ Faulk on, and Hanifin moans, tries to shift him off without trying to look like he’s the one being  _uncool_.

Wardo’s giving him the eyes, and Hanifin covers up the fluttery feeling in his gut with annoyance-- and it is annoying, having a big guy treat you like the furniture–

Hanifin hisses  _bullshit_ , but Faulk doesn’t seem to hear his annoyance in the dark din of the bar. He can’t even stretch out his legs, not with Faulk’s dense weight atop his thighs, and he deeply hopes that circulation doesn’t get cut off from his legs-- or goes straight to his dick. He can feel Faulk’s wallet dig into the top of his thigh, but he can’t move. Doesn’t dare to.

If he leaned over he could press his nose against the edge of Faulk’s t-shirt, worn down to the last thread of the tag sticking up. Faulk smells good,  _clean_ , and god, it’s fucking unfair to have Faulk sit on him, to have that ass pressed on his dick. Even through those horrible jeans Hanifin can feel Faulk’s ass rub against his dick, through all of these fucking horrible layers and maybe Hanifin is a little bit too hard to deny it. Faulk shifts his weight, and stupid Hanifin for thinking that means maybe Faulk’d  _move_ –

No, Faulk moves, just not the way Hanifin wants-- maybe needs-- to  _salvage_  this situation. Faulk fucking grinds against Hanifin, and Hanifin almost swallows his tongue at the rasp of cloth over his hard-on. Hanifin blinks when Faulk looks over his shoulder, and then, slowly,  _deliberately_ , rocks against Hanifin’s dick. Hanifin presses his nails against his palms, trying to be cool, trying to act like he doesn’t even get hard over some guy pressing his ass against his dick.

Turns out he’s a shit liar.

Hanifin has no clue how he doesn’t come in his pants, not with how Faulk feels against him and being that sort of casually  _mean_  that makes Hanifin want to be mean back. He has no idea how it’d fly, pulling at Faulk’s hair and calling him a tease.

That may not be the thing to think about when he tries to get back up to his room with his hardon tucked up under his belt and the stairs jostling it with every step he takes. He’s really looking forward to getting off in the shower before his roomie comes back. Fuck Faulk for being so mean, fuck him for making him think about trying to bounce him on his dick-- not that Hanifin would be actually be able to make Faulk move. No, Faulk’d fuck himself on Hanifin’s dick, probably make even more noise and treat Hanifin like very nice furniture.  _Again._

He sees his room. And there’s Faulk leaning against the door, with a smirk on his face and his arms crossed across his thick chest.

“Do you get hard that easily, Hanny?” Faulk asks. Hanifin licks his lips, but can’t find anything to say. Not when Faulk tosses his head, and adds, “You’ll have a bad time if you go to a real club.”

Hanifin jams in his hotel key into the card slot, and mutters underneath his breath, “Said the man hiding an ass like that. That’s a sin, you know.”

Faulk snorts, presses his hand over Hanifin, and says, “I could feel your dick. Hear your breath hitch. You must’ve looked dumb trying not to come in your pants. Sorry, Hanny, but being mean to you is fun.”

Hanifin swallows, and Faulk is close enough that Hanifin can see a spot on his cheek that he missed shaving, a thin patch of stubble right below his cheekbone. Faulk quirks his eyebrow, and says, “I can be nice, though.”

“Yeah?”

Faulk presses the door open, and stretches himself against Hanifin, “Find out for yourself.”

Hanifin doesn’t need an  _engraved_  invitation.

Hanifin opens the door wide enough for them, and tries to move in closer against Faulk in the small foyer, but Faulk just presses him against the cold metal door and tells him to wait. Hanifin has to press his hands against the too-shiny wallpaper when Faulk pushes down his boxers along with his jeans, and it’s so much better to  _look_  with permission, to see how Faulk’s ass moves when he walks towards the nearest bed. It’s not Hanifin’s bed, but fucking hell, he doesn’t  _care_ , not with how Faulk’s bending over the edge of the bed with his pants down around his knees and his ass up in the air–

Hanifin scrabbles at his pants fly, gets it open just enough to get his dick out. He’s so hard, it hurts to touch himself, and Faulk turns his head. Hanifin can see his dark eyes glint in the light, and Faulk slides a hand back over his ass, even taps it a little. Hanifin mutters  _fuck_  underneath his breath, and christ, he’s actually touching Faulk’s ass, palming it and god, Hanifin has no idea how to eat ass but Faulk’d probably be nice enough to help him out.

He doesn’t  _mean_  to rub off against Faulk’s ass, but god, it’s perfect, fills his hands and makes his dick push just hard enough against the skin there, catch a little on Faulk’s cleft. When Faulk presses his cheeks together, tells Hanifin to just fucking do it–

Heat flushes through Hanifin as he rubs off against Faulk’s ass, listening to both of them breathe hard in the small hotel room, and he’s not going to last long, not with how wound up he is, how good his dick looks pressed against Faulk’s ass and how Faulk’s trying to get more, trying to get Hanifin to get his come all over  _that_ , god–

Hanifin comes hard, with a punch straight through his spine and clutching hard at Faulk’s hips, jerking out come against Faulk and trying to smear it a little more before it gets  _tacky_ –

His knees are too weak, and he staggers against the side of the bed, breathing hard. He’s cold, with his dick out and not quite being able to be up against Faulk from down here on the floor. Faulk shifts carefully, and shit, he’s getting come on the bedspread. Hanifin doesn’t care, not with how hard Faulk is. It strikes him just  _then_  that he’s on his knees, almost in a perfect place for Faulk to fuck his mouth like some kinda porn.

Faulk jerks himself slowly, and manages, “Bit eager there, Hanny.” Hanifin shifts on his knees, and Faulk nudges him with his knees, “No, stay there. Close your eyes–”

Hanifin almost resents not being able to see Faulk touch himself, not being able to see how much his crappy rubbing off got Faulk hot and Hanifin knows Faulk’d be good with his hands, know how to  _control_  himself–

He can hear Faulk jerking himself off, those little hitches in his breathing, and he has no idea how close Faulk is, whether having a guy on his knees with his mouth just slightly open because he still can’t breathe even does it for _Faulk_ , hell, maybe Faulk is that fucking nice, letting rookies rub themselves off on that ass and weep at how good it’d feel to get their faces right up against it–

“Fuck-- I’m–” Faulk hisses, and come splashes Hanifin’s cheek, his mouth. Hanifin’s embarrassed, turned on, weirded out, and god, he can taste Faulk’s come–

Faulk blinks when Hanifin slowly opens his eyes, looks up at him, and Faulk blushes. Hanifin fights against the urge to lick his lips, but yeah, maybe Faulk isn’t being weirdly nice. Faulk looks like he wants to call him  _pretty_  and maybe smother him with his ass and whatever Hanifin asks for.

Hanifin smiles, and Faulk pulls him up from the floor with one hand. Brushes his hand over Hanifin’s dirty face, and says, “Wanna work on your hair trigger?”

The hot look Faulk gives him makes his toes curl against the carpet.

Hanifin does.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com/)


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